


Holy Mistakes

by winterspirit13



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Crowley Whump, Drunk Crowley (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Holy Water, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, No beta we fall like Crowley, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Quote: You go too fast for me Crowley (Good Omens), Things Get Better, Tumblr Prompt, Whump, just a little bit for the prompt, seriously they love each other a lot they're just scared of what might happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 02:54:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19844092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterspirit13/pseuds/winterspirit13
Summary: anonymous asked: Can you do a piece where Crowley is accidentally burned by the holy water Aziraphale gave him, and while it isn't enough to kill him he's hurt real bad and Aziraphale feels super guilty? I love your blog!When Aziraphale gives Crowley the thermos full of holy water, it's like a leap of faith for the angel. Crowley basks in the newfound trust, but that's quickly taken away. Hurt, he sulks, and things get out of hand when Aziraphale won't pick up the phone. One thing leads to the next, and there's a very hurt demon being helped by a very worried, guilty angel.Things turn out for the best, somehow.





	Holy Mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> some (parentheses) abuse because I have not yet figured out how to do footnotes, and I figured it's a bit more convenient at the moment

When Crowley first took the tartan thermos from Aziraphale, he held it gently, as if grasping it any tighter or bringing it any closer to him would reduce him to a sizzling puddle of black goop, right there in his Bentley.

This, of course, wouldn’t be the case, but he still handled it with extreme caution. It was only natural that he wanted the holy water as far away from him as he could manage – it reeked holiness, and Crowley could practically feel the power humming under his fingertips.

And then there was the sentence that might stick in his head for the rest of eternity: _“You go to fast for me, Crowley”._

He tried not to think of it on the drive back to his flat, listening to The Black Angel’s Death, as if he were driving off into his next misdeed. He sped through London at a miraculous pace (he didn’t notice the traffic, so in turn, the traffic decided to not notice him back) and couldn’t pinpoint when Freddie’s voice started to take over, but it didn’t matter since he was back well before it changed fully.

With too much nervous energy to be contained in an elevator, Crowley ops to use the stairs instead, quickly making his way to the flat. The stairs didn’t dare make him walk up the full length of them, of course, so in no time he was slamming his door with a little less force than anger would require. 

Because he wasn’t angry. As much as he wanted to be angry at Aziraphale, he couldn’t be. Instead, Crowley just let the angel’s voice play on repeat. His chest ached the kind of way that only happened when you had begun to hope, only for that hope to be snatched right away again. He was more than a little empty, and definitely more sad than he’d ever choose to admit.

Crowley set the thermos down on a side table rather carelessly (still with some caution, he was upset, not stupid) and slouched himself down on his couch. What had he even been hoping for? For the angel to see him as anything more than an enemy? For him to agree, to spend the night together, to keep spending their nights together?

To _be_ something to each other? 

Demons didn’t get things like that. They got aggressions, sins, and positively _dreadful_ amounts of paperwork. He was lucky for all the civility - the kindness - Aziraphale had shown him. He should be grateful. 

Then again, he was a demon. Maybe it was a little bit his right to be selfish.

Crowley decided he should do what he did best when faced with a situation he didn’t like: take a nap. Preferably a long one. 

He changed into his black silky nightclothes and moved to his bed.

He closed his eyes.

He let each muscle relax.

He slowed his breathing.

….he tried counting, thinking of something boring. He shifted. He adjusted his pillows.

He couldn’t sleep.

Crowley didn’t say that lightly. He had indeed tried just about everything one would normally do, as well as several other things one would normally never try and do, to help ease him into sleep (humans couldn’t sleep on ceilings, perhaps, but when Crowley wanted to he could sleep just about wherever he pleased). But after a week, he finally had to admit defeat.

If he couldn’t fall asleep, then alcohol had to be the only next step. Because he was tired of thinking, of _feeling_ things involving one certain angel that he shouldn’t even be _able_ to.

Pouring himself a glass of wine, Crowley stalked through his flat. The wine quickly turned into something darker and much stronger, and before long, he was properly shitfaced.

It is in these moments, very bad ideas seem to become very enticing, and in fact, seem like Very Good Ideas instead. This is as true in the occult (or ethereal) as in humans. That might be why it shouldn’t be surprising that Crowley picked up his phone and dialed Aziraphale (who’s voicemail existed but had never properly been set up like his own).

“Zzziraphale!” He slurred into the phone. “Jus’ wanted to call you. Um. No, wanted to talk to you too! ‘Else it wouldn’t matter if you didn’t pick up.” Crowley paused, going silent for just a bit too long for a recording, but he had to at least make an attempt at gathering his thoughts.

“Guess you don’t want to, then. Didn’t think it’d be too much after some thousand y- well, doesn’t matter. Call me, angel.” This would have been a respectable way to end a phone call - or at least as respectable as you could be when drunk dialing your more-than-enemy angel. Ending it with a broken, hissing _please_ would be much less so.

Aziraphale did not call back. 

Crowley called again. And then maybe a few more times. Each anxiously fiddling with the cable connecting his phone. Sometimes he would pace back and forth, other times he was sitting sprawled out on chair - or throne, really. 

If you asked Crowley what he had said during these one-sided calls, he probably wouldn’t be able to remember well enough to tell you. Certainly, nothing he would say to Aziraphale in his right mind. For a week, he would call a few times, then sulk, then try again. 

The last time he called, he slammed down his phone mid-sentence. Clearly, this wasn’t working. Aziraphale was still ignoring him in a way he hadn’t since much closer to the Beginning.

The phone made a satisfying _crunch_ as it cracked on the table. This was when Crowley decided that he would sober up, at least for the most bit, since really getting drunk just made him more emotional cooped up in his flat alone. 

Breaking things felt much better. He stalked to his garden, quickly spotting a plant with slightly drooping leaves. “ _You_ ,” he growled. Crowley picked up the quivering thing by the stem, and smashed the pot down, shattering it there and then. The shattered edges of the terracotta sliced at his palms, making him hiss. 

_Stupid angel. Couldn’t he see how slowly Crowley was moving already? Why would he dangle something like that right in front of him, only to pull away again? And_ why _did it have to feel like Crowley’s heart was breaking when it never should have been the Angel’s in the first place?_

He was a blur of destruction in his flat. Pots that were not made of stone or concrete were helpless to his wrath. Anything that could be ripped was torn without mercy. Anything that could be toppled over was pushed to the ground, letting Crowley revel in the crash. 

It was rather unfortunate when he tipped over a certain end table in front of him. Not because he liked the thing particularly. 

No, it just happened to have a tartan thermos set on it by a rather careless, emotional demon. 

It hit the floor, hard. The lid cracked.

Before Crowley could do anything but draw a sharp breath in, he was hit by a splash of water. 

He let out an inhuman scream, flesh burning painfully, skin from patches on his arms and his collarbones dripping off as little more than black goo. 

A quick demonic miracle was all Crowley could manage, putting the thermos the right way up to stop any more from spilling out. 

Just the effort from that task alone made Crowley’s vision turn spotty. He fell back onto the floor, panting and whimpering. His heart (although not necessary, but some humans had freaked out when they didn’t feel a heartbeat while he was in the middle of a nap once) was racing, pumping adrenaline through his body.

It _hurt_ . Christ, it hurt. For a moment he thought it might actually be the end, as he clutched himself, screaming. How could it happen like this? A simple accident, something so careless. Being immortal, he never faced the concept of an _end_. It was there, in theory, but it didn’t feel as real as it was in those few seconds when he just didn’t know.

The sharp burning pain slowly turning into a dull throb, and Crowley realized he wasn’t going to die. His pained shouts quieted into ragged breathing with the occasional whimper or groan. 

His right arm and chest were badly burned, it hurt too much to even sit up properly. Crowly tried to shift his position, but it sent new waves of pain and nausea through him and left him gasping for breath that he really didn’t need. 

All in all; there was hardly any way this situation could get worse. So, naturally, it did just that.

A hesitant knock rang in his ears as _someone_ thought now was an appropriate time to stand outside his flat. _It really wasn’t_. Every muscle tense, Crowley brought his (left) hand up to his mouth, biting down on his finger to stop any wayward noises of pain.

The moment of silence hung delicately, balancing on an air of tension, much like how one would balance a pencil on their finger. 

Then, “Crowley? I… I know you’re there.” _Oh fuck._

Did Aziraphale really need to show up without any warning? Desperately Crowley tried to gather the strength to fix his apartment at least, but the effort just caused a pained groan to slip from his mouth, muffled as it may be. 

“That’s it, Crowley, I’m coming in,” The angel says, determination strong in his voice.

“No-” Crowley protests, but it was too late. The door opened for Aziraphale, and Crowley shut his eyes to at least save himself from the initial expression. His right arm was curled over his chest and with any luck, maybe he just wouldn’t notice.

The angel made a noise that choked in his throat. “What _happened_ here, my dear?”

Bless the stupid angel and his stupid pet names. How could he just say something like that after saying _that_ before, after ignoring him for months? Crowley wanted to hate the way Aziraphale spoke to him, that way. 

Mostly, Crowley just hated the way it made him soften. 

“Nothing. Me,” Crowley manages to get out. “Can we reschedule, Angel?” Crowley gestures with his unharmed hand, “Little busy.”

“With what?” Aziraphale’s eyebrows made a good escape attempt, disbelieving as ever when Crowley got around to looking at him. 

“Redecorating,” He growls back. 

Aziraphale’s face wrinkles and he kneels down to look into Crowley’s eyes. “I did listen to your messages, you know.” Crowley flinches, letting out a hiss that had much less to do with what the angel had said and much more to do with how moving tore at his raw skin, the fabric scraping painfully at the wound.

Crowley wasn’t sure how long he could keep any sense of composure at this point. He didn’t respond, and apparently, that was enough for Aziraphale to continue.

“Dear boy, you had me quite worried.” Aziraphale looks away. “I couldn’t come sooner, not while heaven was keeping such a close eye on me. Gabriel paid a visit, but well, that wasn’t it,” Aziraphale grabs Crowley's right arm, and it was all he could do to keep from crying out in pain. He grits his teeth.

“You must know, Crowley… It’s not that I don’t, well, care for you,” he admits. “I’m just…” Aziraphale pauses and Crowley realizes his mistake.

Through clenched teeth, a whimper of pain has slipped out. It’s a pitiful and desperate sound and one that has Aziraphale scanning Crowley immediately. “You’re hurt,” he says.

Crowley meets his gaze with his own demonic yellow eyes. He was breathing raggedly, each breath hurting just a bit more than the last.If it wasn’t such a dead giveaway, Crowley would stop the function altogether. 

“Not ssseriously.” Crowley denied. Well, that was a blatant lie. 

Aziraphale shook his head. “Crowley, tell me.”

“No!” Crowley snaps, panting. “Jusst leave, we’ll ressschedule this heart to heart later.” He wills his voice to be sharp and cruel, but it’s just tired and stressed. The drawn-out “s”s annoy him as soon as they were out of his lips, but like many a moment in his existence, he doesn’t have the control to stop it. 

Crowley almost regrets smashing his sunglasses. A bit of protection from this plain vulnerability would be more than helpful.

As the angel starts to ask again, Crowley looks pointedly anywhere other than at Aziraphale. He won’t tell the angel - after all, he’s still here, and he didn’t need him taking away his _one_ protection from hell over a little bit of misplaced guilt for the demon,

Hell wasn’t the type for sternly written letters, after all. And if they got word of the Arrangement? No, Crowley would just keep quiet about the whole situation until Aziraphale grew frustrated and left him for the night. 

“...I apologize in advance for this,” Aziraphale said, and then did something Crowley had not at all planned on; he pulled Crowley’s arm from his chest. 

Crowley cried out, trying to squirm away from the firm grip. Aziraphale dropped his arm as if he had been burned instead. 

“No,” his voice broke. “Oh, no, what have you done to yourself?”

Crowley regained his voice slowly. “Angel. Angel, it was just a mistake, I would never-” he broke off. He realized how deeply he must have been afraid of Crowley using it on _himself_ on _purpose_ if the look of utter guilt on Aziraphale’s face was anything to go by. He cursed himself for not realizing that sooner. “I was just… Thought you weren’t going to come ‘round this time,” he admits. “Got upset. Broke things.”

Aziraphale took another look around him, studying the surroundings with a deep sadness. His eyes fall on the cracked thermos, sitting just a few feet away from the two of them. 

Without speaking, he walks carefully over to it. Aziraphale picks up the thermos gently in his hands, and miraculously, it is free of any cracks. Carefully, he walks to a cupboard, opening it (and ignoring how the door hung off its hinges due to the state Crowley was previously in) and placed the tartan object high on a shelf.

“You can’t be so careless,” Aziraphale reprimands, returning to him. There is no real sternness in his voice, however. “Let me help, dear.”

Crowley nods. Aziraphale gently unbuttons his shirt, pulling it off of his injured chest and arms. Crowley chokes on the pain of the feeling, but doesn’t cry out - he hated the look enough on the angel’s face when he knew Crolwy was in pain.

A rather inappropriate part of his brain tells him that he would really rather the first time Aziraphale took off his shirt was in a much more pleasant, _sinful_ context. 

Aziraphale studies the would carefully. A good spot of his flesh has been burned away under his collarbone, but not quite to the bone. Similarly, there is a strip of his forearm burnt where the water had dripped. Aziraphale tuts, face still scrunched with worry and sets about tending to his wounds.

There wasn’t much that could be done about them, in the way of miracles. Regular injuries were one thing, but one of divine origins just couldn’t be dealt with so easily. Doing the human thing was the best Aziraphale could do for him, and so that’s what he did. 

When the cool cream hit his skin, Crowley wasn’t sure if the stinging pain or relief would win out. He gasped, trying to adjust to the pain, and Aziraphale paused to let him. “Keep going,” Crowley grit out. “Best jussst to get it over with,” he reasons. 

Aziraphale nods in agreement. “I’d just rather not see you in pain at all.” Still, he continues as quickly as possible while still keeping a tender touch. 

Next, Aziraphale wrapped the burns in bandages. The arm was the easiest, and although Crowley made rather painful noises at the sensation, once it was done, he did have to admit it felt better than before. 

Not much, but he’d take anything he could get.

The chest was the hard part. “You’re going to have to sit up, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale instructs. Crowley tries but is knocked back by the pain. He’s caught by soft hands, and Aziraphale is propping him up. 

If he weren’t in so much pain, Crowley might appreciate just how close they were in that moment. Certainly, this was much more contact than they had ever had before. 

“Tell me why you got yourself into such a state,” asks Aziraphale as he works. It’s said in a rushed way, the kind when you’ve been replaying a sentence over and over in your head, trying desperately to find the courage to say it out loud.

Crowley blinks. “You know,” he accuses.

Aziraphale sighs. “Perhaps. Best to say it anyway,” he insists. 

Crowley considers this. For one, he’s a demon, and by nature, he doesn’t trust easily. Especially with things that could hurt him. Putting that aside, there was only so much Crowley could even _admit_ to. Not without scaring Aziraphale off. Not without admitting something he couldn’t come to grips with himself.

But Crowley wasn’t very good at refusing anything to his angel. 

“Youi.. you say these _things_ , angel. That make me think just maybe you’d want… well, it doesn\t matter, but I just… got my hopes up, ‘suppose. Er. Thought you might, um, get scared away for good. Messed everything up.” He wasn’t sure if the words made sense, if they were in the right order, or if it was too much, _too quickly_.

Aziraphale finishes his bandages but doesn’t let go of Crowley. For a moment that seems to drag on into something like forever, they sit together in hesitant silence. “You know,” he says so quietly that Crowley can hardly make it out, “It might not be the Ritz, but there’s a sushi place I’m rather fond of. It would be a rather odd coincidence if, say, next week you’ve healed some and we manage to eat there at the same time.”

Crowley’s heart stutters. He nods, words stuttering, his brain not quite able to shape sounds into an actual sentence. Aziraphale seems to understand this anyways.

“For now, though, you should really sleep. Your body will need rest to heal this.”

“‘Course,” Crowley manages. With his agreement, Aziraphale helps him up, letting Crowley lean on him as they make their way to Crowley’s bed. 

He blinks, and suddenly he is fully-clothed, albeit in pajamas. They were black, but soft cotton as opposed to his usual silk ones. They almost smelled like the angel.

Once he had been helped into bed (and once he had reluctantly released Aziraphale, maybe holding on just a second too long) Aziraphale stood, walking towards the door.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley called. The angel stopped in his tracks. _Stay,_ he wanted to say. But he knew it was too much to ask. “Thank you,” he says instead.

Aziraphale’s shoulders relax, and although Crowley couldn’t see his face, he is certain the man must have smiled.

Exhausted, Crowley slipped easily into sleep,

Although the angel was gone the next day, Crowley could not possibly miss how everything was miraculously whole again, as if he had never broken a thing.

Not quite in their right place, but Crowley had to count the gesture as a win, coming from the angel.

**Author's Note:**

> It's 3am and I said I'd go to bed hours ago but I just had to finish this!! I loved writing it, but I struggled so hard to figure out how to get Crowley into this scenario, so a bit more angst than purely necessary happened.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this! As always, seeing kudos and getting comments absolutely makes my day! If you'd like, drop by my tumblr (readingwritingcrying) to request a prompt, or leave one in the comments! Thank you all so much for reading.
> 
> also, just a heads up if you do request something: I might not respond a bit! I save the comments that way, and I have a few things to write atm, but rest assured I will be filling everyone's prompt unless I let you know otherwise! Thank you to all the lovely people who keep requesting stuff from me <3
> 
> I may be ignoring my own advice but if it's late and you're reading this please get some rest! Take care of your health, take care of yourself.


End file.
